


One Other Reason

by probably_somewhere



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: Action & Romance, Backstory, M/M, Pre-Canon, that's right my friends, well i wrote a whole goddamn backstory for it, you know that one throwaway line in the second movie that apparently means Gobber is gay, young gobber
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-23 04:05:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14926823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/probably_somewhere/pseuds/probably_somewhere
Summary: There are many reasons that Gobber the Belch never married, but only one of them has a name.Twenty year-old Gobber's life is turned upside down when damaged ships from a far-off tribe sail into Berk asking for help. He expected to have an extra person crowding his home while the ships are being repaired, but he didn't expect that person to become his closest ally, and his first love.





	1. Don't Worry About It

Gobber was not a romantic man.

He didn't fantasize about taking any of the girls on walks along the rocky beaches or through the thick forests of the island of Berk. His heart didn't skip a beat when he thought of fighting beside them or asking for their hands in marriage. As much as the other boys his age talked and talked about which girls they thought were the toughest and the smartest, Gobber could never muster the energy to feign his own interest in them. The idea just didn’t appeal to him.

His father, on the other hand, was all-too-interested in Gobber’s lackluster love life. After having been of marriageable age for nearly four years, he’d tried to set him up with every maiden in the village at _least_ once, and twice if she was unlucky.

This afternoon, he seemed particularly set on the idea of Gobber asking out their waitress in Meade Hall. The girl barely paid them any attention as she ran from table to table as quick as wildfire, but his father insisted that she was flirting with Gobber and that he should be more gracious toward her.

He slapped his tankard on the table and licked his lips. He was drunk enough by now that his words came out slow and intense. “Next time she comes by, offer her a drink. She'll like that.”

Gobber looked sullenly at his own full mug of ale. “I can't offer her a drink, Dad.”

“Well why not?” his father demanded. “She’s clearly taken a liking to ye.”

“She’s at work,” Gobber explained. “It’s her job to be nice to me.”

His father narrowed his eyes, uncomprehending. “That's nonsense. All you need—”

“I’m not buying her a drink,” Gobber said. “End of conversation.”

“Yer missing out,” grumbled his father as he took another big gulp of ale. The torches in the hall burned bright, but most of the light came streaming through the open doors of the hall from the afternoon sun. Normally, they didn’t drink so early in the day, but today was a day of celebration for a successful fall harvest, so most of the village had started drinking after their morning chores.

Gobber sighed and set his mug on the table so that he could run his hand through his hair. He would have preferred to use his off-hand to show his exasperation, but it was currently being digested by a monstrous nightmare somewhere in the wilderness, and so did him no good whatsoever anymore. He still hadn't gotten used to it, his one-handedness, but he supposed a week wasn't long enough for that sort of thing. Sore and tender to the touch even underneath its heavy layering of bandages, it was like his whole arm was missing, instead of just his wrist and below.

“You're _twenty years old_ , Gobber. It's time for you to get married, start a family,” his father continued after spending too much time on the thought.

Gobber said nothing. The idea turned his stomach. It really did.

“Son, you can't avoid it. Not anymore.”

He’d opened his mouth to do just that when a shout erupted from the mouth of the hall: “Ships! Ships on the horizon! Battle positions, everyone!”

Gobber vaulted off the bench and ran to the hall’s entrance without a backward glance, too glad to be away from that conversation to worry about the approaching ships. He wasn’t in a combat position, anyway, since the loss of his hand, and wouldn’t be moved back to the front lines until his arm was healed enough to tolerate a prosthetic.

Among the throng of Vikings—now remarkably sober—spilling out of Meade Hall, Gobber had to fight his way toward his lookout tower. It was positioned to the west of the docks, and from the top he had a clear view of half of the island's beaches. Once he’d scrambled up the ladder with considerable difficulty, Gobber took a moment to admire his island. The forest was thick and intimidating, and the rocks were jagged and unfriendly, and nestled among the beautiful but unforgiving landscape was their village. Buildings, new and old and under construction, sat in their unassuming way, as if they knew they were all only temporary in the face of the nature surrounding them. Gobber saw life that way; he wasn’t a permanent fixture, not in the slightest. Too many things were out of his control to get caught up in them, so it was better to just make his way through.

Gobber shook his head and pulled a knife out of his belt as he settled into his watch position. The tower was actually quite spacious at his current size. It was designed to fit even the biggest villager, which Gobber was not now and never would be. And though he was bulky, he also still had a lot of filling out to do; Vikings tended to grow up before they grew out, after all.

He peered out at the docks, squinting his eyes to get a proper look at the ships. The outlines of four of them approached the island, and as they drew closer he realized the shape they were in. Broken planks and torn sails riddled their decks, and at least two of them had hull damage and sagged low into the water. Less than half of the benches had rowers and oars to propel the boats forward across the still water.

When they got within a few hundred yards, the lead ship raised a white flag of truce. Though the material was stained and it hung limp on the mast, the message was clear.

They sought refuge on Berk.

The chief and a small party of villagers waited for them on the docks at the base of the cliff. All was silent as the ships floated to them. Three stopped one hundred yards away, but the last continued to the dock. A single plank was used to connect the ship to it, and an unarmed woman crossed to meet the chief of Berk.

They were too far away for Gobber to hear their words or read their body language, but when no one drew weapons and attacked, he got the sense that nothing bad was happening. After several minutes, the chief raised his arm in a closed fist, and the bugler followed his lead and gave the all-clear signal.

Gobber didn’t bother with the ladder on the way down.

His pounding footsteps ate up the distance of dirt paths and wooden ramps in his mad dash to the docks. Something like this was so unusual that his natural curiosity was spiked to an insatiable level.

He nearly ran headlong into Alvilda the Fierce.

“What’s going on?” he blurted, skidding to a stop before he plunged off the side of the dock.

“Ships attacked by dragons,” Alvilda growled. All Vikings disdained dragons, but her hatred of them was exceptionally fierce after her husband had been killed by one less than a year into their marriage. Since then—and she was in old age now—her whole life had been devoted to training the young villagers how to fight the beasts. “Chief offered them refuge here until their ships are fixed.”

Gobber gave his thanks and shouldered past her to approach the ship. Men and women of all ages were already picking their way across the narrow plank to the safety of the dock. They didn't have much to carry with them–either they'd planned for a short trip, or they'd lost a lot of it in the attack.

Unsure of what to do with himself, he stepped up to the plank and stretched out his good hand, beckoning for the man atop it to take hold. With the added support, he could clamber onto the dock easily. Gobber accepted his thanks and reached out for the next person.

As the ship cleared out, even more damage became evident. These ships probably wouldn't have lasted another day at sea. He absently reached for another arm as he examined the tribal emblem painted on the main mast, trying to remember it.

“Ah!”

The surprised yelp and the jerk on his arm pulled Gobber’s attention back to the task at hand. The man beside him teetered dangerously to one side, his leg thrown out to try and steady himself. Seeing that he was about to fall into the water, Gobber threw his weight back to yank them both onto the dock, but overestimated how heavy the man was and they both tumbled to the ground.

Instinctively, Gobber put out his other hand to break his fall. He only realized what a terrible mistake that was when searing pain shot though his stump and all the way up his arm, making his vision go white and his world spiral down to nothing but his agony.

He cried out as the man landed nearly on top of him, but the impact knocked all his air out and it was all he could do not to gasp and sob and flail under the man’s weight. Almost instantly, strong hands lifted the man off of him and there were people kneeling next to him.

“Are you alright?” someone asked, but he couldn’t tell who.

Gobber let his body curl into itself as he fought to steady his breathing and force back the tears from his eyes. He could feel that his wound was reopened and raw as ever underneath his bandages.

Long seconds later, Gobber forced his eyes open and blinked away the stinging in his eyes. His stump throbbed and he wanted nothing more than to lay on that dock until he disappeared, but he pushed to his feet and dusted off his rear with his good hand. He held his injured arm gingerly, close to his body. “I’m fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “Landed wrong, is all.”

A man he didn’t know—the man who’d caused his fall—laid an arm on his shoulder and looked into his eyes with earnest. “My deepest apologies,” he said in a concerned but refined voice. “I am as clumsy as a blink yak, I swear it.”

Gobber looked into his eyes, which were a sand color that contrasted with his dark face, and somehow forgot his pain for a moment. 

“No—no need,” Gobber stuttered, and then finished lamely: “To apologize. No need to apologize. It’s not your fault.”

If someone had asked him where his brain had gone, he would have said that he was still recovering from the fall. And it was true, kind of. But mostly, he was fascinated by the man in front of him. He was Gobber’s age or thereabouts, but much taller and hardly as wide. His hair was almost but not quite black, and had a texture to it that solidified his theory that this tribe was from far to the south. What the were doing all the way up here, he didn’t know, and at that moment it didn’t seem proper to ask.

“Best if you take a break after that,” said someone near him. The chief’s son, Stoick, he realized belatedly. “And see Gothi to redress your wounds if need be.”

Gobber shook his head a little to rid it of the lingering dizziness. “Aye.” 

“Please,” said the man. His hand was still on Gobber’s shoulder. “Let me come with you. I won’t rest until I know you’re okay.”

“Um,” Gobber said. “Okay.”

The walked together away from the docks, Gobber’s legs still shaking from pain. The man didn’t seem to mind how slowly they climbed the ramps up to the village, and instead just took in the view.

“This is a beautiful island,” he said. There was a seriousness in his voice that surprised Gobber.

“If you like rocky beaches and dark forests,” Gobber deadpanned, eyes focused on the uneven planks in front of him.

“I do, in fact.”

He blinked and looked over at the man, trying to gauge if he was serious. It seemed to Gobber that he was. “Then welcome to Berk.”

The man smiled, and instantly Gobber realized that this man’s face was the kind that was meant to be smiling. It looked so natural on him, the way scowls looked natural on Alvilda and grimaces on his father.

“I’m Gobber, by the way,” he added as an afterthought.

The other man nodded. After a second’s hesitation, he said: “Rack.”

“What?” Gobber frowned and looked over at him again.

“You can call me Rack.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Gobber said, feeling dumb. “Of course. It’s a pleasure, Rack.”

Rack shook his head. “All I’ve caused you so far is pain, Gobber.”

“It’s really fine,” he insisted. “The hand was already gone.”

An awkward silence settled between them, but was filled quickly by Rack’s tentative laughter.

“I’m sorry,” he said, covering his mouth. “That’s not funny, I just—”

“No, no, it was a joke. You can laugh.” Gobber found himself smiling.

“Okay,” said Rack, and took a deep breath to settle his chuckling. “So that’s a recent injury?”

Gobber nodded. “A week old.”

Rack let out a low whistle. “Dragons?”

“Aye.” He scrambled for a different topic, feeling the memories of that night rise n his chest. “So how long do you expect it will take to fix your ships?”

The turned onto the dirt path, but instead of heading toward Gothi’s hut, Gobber steered them toward his family’s forge. He could change his own bandages later this evening, when the was mentally prepared for the pain of his scabs peeling off with the fabric.

“I don’t know,” admitted Rack. “We didn’t get much chance to assess the damage after the attack. Could be weeks. Months, even.”

“Were you on a hunting trip?”

“Uh—no. Diplomacy, of all things. We have an arrangement with a tribe further north of Berk.”

His tone told Gobber that there was more to that explanation than Rack was letting on, but that now was not the time to pry further. “Well, you’ll be needing a place to stay, then. I’m sure the Chief will have every household take in a few of you, so your family is welcome to stay with mine.”

“It’s just me,” Rack said. “But if you have the floor space I would be honored.”

“I have an extra bedroll that you can use.”

Gobber pushed the door to the forge open and entered, not bothering to close it behind him and Rack. Hot air billowed out of the open doorway.

“Your healer lives here?” Rack inquired. He ghosted his fingers along the flat of a blade, bent from the last dragon raid.

“No, I live here. I don’t need the healer.”

Rack frowned but didn’t challenge him. “Smithing the family business, then?”

“Aye. On my mother’s side, that is. Dad’s out tending the sheep mostly, but I help both of them out when I’m not apprenticing with the dragon training.”

Rack’s hand stilled above an axe with a cracked head. “Dragon training? By Thor—you _train_ the beasts?”

Gobber couldn’t stop the derisive laugh that snuck through his lips. “Of course not! That’s impossible. No, we train the sixteenth years how to _fight_ them. And I’m apprenticed to the master trainer. Training lasts three months, and this year’s lot has hardly lasted one.”

“Ah,” Rack laughed. “That makes much more sense.”

“D’you not have that?”

Rack shook his head. “We train in the basics with our families when we are young, and then apprentice with a master of our best weapon.”

“What’s yours?” Gobber asked, scratching at the skin above his bandage.

“The sword. Nothing exceptional, but a good weapon. I lost my blade in the attack yesterday,” Rack continued. “I forged it myself, and it was a fine blade, but it was the sword or my arm, so I—”

The words had barely come out of his mouth before he clapped his hands over it and turned to Gobber with wide-eyed embarrassment. “I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t worry about it,” interrupted Gobber, glancing down at the limb he’d somehow forgotten was missing, if only for a moment. The light from the forge cast a dim glow onto the bandages, which were just starting to show the blood from his reopened wound. Battle scars such as his may be a badge of honor among his peers, but that didn’t stop it from hurting like Odin’s fist.

Gobber pushed away the self pity with a wave of his stump. “It’s nothing I don’t already know about. Besides, it has its perks.”

“Like what?”

“The tavern master gives us money off drinks for every limb we’ve lost,” Gobber said. “Some people get all their drinks free, so I’m not that bad off, really.”

“Oh. Okay.” Gobber could hear the wariness in his voice, but chose to ignore it and pour some water out of the pitcher on his work table into a mug instead. “Um—Gobber. I’m no good with carpentry, so they won’t want me anywhere near the ships, but I would help out at the forge if you’d have me.”

Gobber took a deep swallow of the tepid water. He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. “If you made your own sword, you’re probably already better than me with one hand. And I’m sure Mom would appreciate the extra help.”

“Brilliant,” said Rack. “If you’re alright here, I should go help unload the ships, though. Salvage what we can.”

“Yeah, of course. I’m fine here. I’ll put out your bedroll.”

“Thanks.” Rack hovered in the doorway, his hand resting on the frame, like he was going to say something else.

“What is it?”

Rack shook his head. “I couldn’t have picked a better person to assault in my first moments on Berk.”

“Um…thanks.” The sort-of compliment twisted in his stomach.

Rack grinned and stepped outside, saying over his shoulder: “Don’t worry about it.”  


	2. Not Even a Little

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The refugees settle into life on Berk, and it's a welcome change for Gobber.

After a little adjustment, Rack fit in easily.

They accepted another refugee, too, a young woman who excelled at woodwork and didn’t spend much time in the house for all her work on the ships. Gobber gave up his bed in the house to her, and slept in front of the forge fire in a bedroll next to Rack’s. He didn’t mind it in the least as the nights grew steadily colder. Their dining table was a bit more crowded than it used to be, but the added conversation made up for their close quarters. Any surrender they made to accommodate their charges was more than made up for, in one way or another. 

Rack followed Gobber around like a shadow, the kind whose foot always fell in the same place as his, but never stepped on his toes. There had been no family with him on the ships, so he didn’t have anyone else to spend his time with. Gobber appreciated this; most of his peers were married with children by now, so it never felt like he fit in among them anymore because their lives were in such different places. But sometimes, Rack’s lack of family—and even, it seemed, of close friends—felt too conspicuous, almost like he was hiding something. It was a sore matter for Rack, too. He only gave dodgy answers on the few occasions when anyone asked about his family, so no one pressed.

They fell into the sort of routine that left room for things like sleeping and eating to be crammed in only on the edges. The pair split their time between working in the forge, helping to repair the boats—as much as Rack’s limited skill and Gobber’s limited limbs allowed—and assisting with Dragon Training.

Alvilda the Fierce, the training master, kept them both busy. Despite her years, Alvilda retained every bit of her fierceness, and for that Gobber admired her. He knew, though, that within only a handful of years he would take over as the training master, so he made every effort to be as attentive and helpful as possible. Rack followed suit, and they were put to work with everything from moving targets to giving one-on-one weapons practice during the afternoon classes in the Arena.

The Arena was a new addition to the island since Gobber had gone through dragon training five years earlier. It required constant rearranging to keep up with the fast pace of the training, so Gobber and Rack were often late into the night setting up walls and barricades for the next day's training.

On a cloudy Friday evening two weeks after Rack’s arrival, class had gotten out on time, which was both rare and welcome. As the students piled out the gates, Gobber and Rack had dutifully begun dismantling the wooden barricades.

“How long is boat work going on today?” Gobber mused, sliding the weapons rack toward the large storage room. The wheels rumbled over the polished stone floor, and he had to focus his attention on steering the cart with just one hand. “We could get a few hours in before sundown.”

Rack shrugged. He hefted a few planks and braces over his shoulder and said with a grunt: “I think I heard someone say a storm was moving in. If that's the case, they'll have stopped by now, won't they?”

From the other side of the circular Arena, Alvilda stood slowly from her trunk of smaller teaching supplies. She’d told Gobber once—in confidence and under threat of bodily harm—that when bad weather was approaching the island, she felt it in her aging joints. From the way she’d been moving around that day, Gobber thought that Rack’s information must be correct.

“Aye, they started storm preparations after noontime,” Alvilda said. “With a storm like this one coming in, you’d be right daft to be out after dinner.”

Gobber shook his head as he walked over to help with another barricade. “I have to check my snares after dinner. But we’ll be quick about it.”

“Check them now,” Alvilda ordered. “And then be safely indoors before the storm hits. I’ll finish up here, boys. Not that much left to do anyway.”

Rack paused in his work, confused. “We'll stay. It’s no trouble.”

Gobber bit his lip and watched with amusement as the gray-haired training master fixed Rack with one of her fiercest looks. He didn’t know yet to not argue with Alvilda the Fierce. “You’ll go and check your traps _now_ ,” she told them sternly. “I’m not so old yet that you should put yourselves in danger just to save me an hour of work.”

Rack's mouth opened as if to argue, but then he thought better of it. He was a fast learner. The two of them disassembled a final barrier and bid Alvilda a farewell for the evening.

As they trekked down the path toward the village, Rack asked in a quiet voice: “Will she be okay, doing that on her own?”

“Okay?” Gobber scoffed. “You _really_ haven't spent much time here. You don’t have to worry about Alvilda; just worry about anything that gets in her way.”

Rack offered a cautious “alright” by way of reply, and whistled a slow tune as he and Gobber ducked off the trail and into the forest. That was something he did, whistling. Gobber was growing used to having Rack’s whistling fill any silence in his life.

They pushed through the low-hanging fir branches and thick underbrush. There was a trail that led most of the way to the snares he’d set, but this route was faster. Clouds were already gathering around the island, preparing for a later onslaught of rain and hail, and they made the forest even darker than usual.

“How many snares do you have set?” Rack asked from over Gobber's shoulder.

“Twenty or so,” replied Gobber, mapping them out in his head.

Rack took a deep, appreciative breath of the crisp air. “Alright,” he said, hands on his hips as he surveyed their surrounding. “I’ll accept this.”

“What?” Gobber frowned.

“You said Berk had dark forests and rocky beaches,” he explained with a laugh. “And this forest is appropriately dark and foreboding.”

Gobber rolled his eyes. “The beaches next week, then. There are some with rocks that’ll cut your feet on the other side of the island.”

“Brilliant.” In the fading light, Gobber caught Rack’s wide grin, and he got a deeper gratification from the sight than it truly warranted. “We’ll walk along them like we’re the only people in the world.”

Gobber didn’t know what to say to that, and it did strange things to his ability to speak. After a few moments, he recovered. “If we’re quick, we’ll make it home in time for dinner. I think my father is making yak and cabbage stew tonight.”

Their stomachs rumbled in unison at the thought. Gobber's father, as bothersome as he could be about getting Gobber out of the house, was an amazing cook. It was one of the very few skills that Gobber had inherited from him.

He expected Rack to pick back up with his whistling when he didn’t offer more conversation, but the wind rustling the trees filled their silence instead. The first snare in the line turned up empty. They moved on quickly, and the wind seemed to pick up speed with their every step. The tops of the trees swirled in a near-frenzy, but at the forest floor it was still oddly quiet.

“I have to come up with the final test for Dragon Training this year,” said Gobber, looking back at Rack. “There's still more than a month between now and the final, but–it has to be good, you know?”

Rack nodded his understanding. “Have you got any ideas?”

“Not a one. D'you think you'll still be around by then?” Gobber knelt by another trap, noting that something had upset it but escaped. He reset the snare, but with difficulty. Everything was harder with one hand, and only the sheer force of his stubbornness made some things manageable.

When there wasn't an answer, Gobber turned full around to look at Rack. He was staring off into the forest, eyes unfocused. The picture he painted was one, almost, of mourning. The usual strong set of his shoulders was missing, replaced by a posture that nearly curled in on itself, and his head hung on his neck like it wanted to be anywhere else. He stood huddled among the needled branches of a tree, oblivious to how they pressed into his skin and clothes.

“Rack?”

His friend blinked and shook his head. “Um–I don't know. I hope so.”

Gobber stood and brushed off his knees. “You don't want to go home, do you?”

Rack bit his lip and inhaled deeply through his nose, as he always did when someone reminded him of home or his family. The first gusts of wind pushed through the trees, trying to nudge the pair along. They didn't move.

“I won't be going home,” Rack began, and the whole forest seemed to echo the deliberate way he took his next breath. He wasn’t looking at Gobber. “At least, not to my old home, anyway.”

Gobber didn't speak for fear that anything he said would stop Rack from saying more. He hardly breathed. Even this one thing was the most he’d ever said about his past, and it seemed that the weight of his confession pushed his shoulders even further in on themselves.

“This was my farewell voyage. I—” he stopped. His mouth worked, searching for words. As the clouds moved in over the island, even the patches of light that peeked through the trees were dim. Rack’s eyes flicked to Gobber’s and then away again, or perhaps he imagined it in the uncertain light.

The dark splotches of Rack's lips curled into a sour grin. “I'm getting married,” he said, and his voice dripped with desperation. It was the opposite emotion from what should be coupled with those words.

“What?” Gobber hated how much it sounded like a gasp.

“It’s part of a treaty. She’s the future chief of a tribe further north. I've only met her once, but I don’t... I can’t… I can’t love her. Not like that.”

A little part of Gobber's chest crumbled. He wasn't entirely sure why, but this news—the finality of it—overwhelmed him almost as much as it seemed to overwhelmRack.

He swallowed the shards and asked: “Why you?”

Some of the despair seeped out of Rack's face, replaced by mild embarrassment. “They couldn't very well take my brother. He has to stay home and be chief there.”

“Oh.” Gobber took a moment to process that information. “ _Oh._ You mean–you're the son of a chief?

“The _second_ son of a chief,” Rack clarified. “Which isn't really good for anything.”

Gobber's mind whirred with questions, and they would have exploded from him if he didn't keep a firm hold on them. “W–where are your parents, then? I'd have expected to see them, if they're sending you away.”

“The chief and his wife went in the advance party.” Rack turned away and began walking again, as if it would let him walk away from his future. Gobber didn’t miss the impersonal way he referred to his parents, and knew then how deep his bitterness toward them ran. “I assume they are already on Shatter Island and awaiting the rest of the party's arrival. We were expected three days ago.”

Gobber chewed his lip. “You’re glad your ships were attacked, aren’t you?”

He did’t mean for the question to sound like an accusation, but it might have. And he already knew the answer as well as Rack did, but he needed to ask it anyway.

Rack knelt by the next snare and disentangled a dead rabbit from the wire. He passed it wordlessly to Gobber, who stowed it in his knapsack.

“We lost fifteen of our people in that attack,” Rack said. He pushed through the trees toward the next snare. “And more supplies than we could afford to lose. It should be so _easy_ for me to tell you that I wish it had never happened, but I can’t say it because it isn’t true. I’m so damn _happy_ we got attacked that I—that I hate myself for it. And I know it only delays the inevitable.”

His voice rose as he spoke, like the words caused him a physical pain as they tore from his throat. Gobber weaved behind him through the trees.

“And with every day I’m here,” Rack shouted over the wind and the lump in his throat so big Gobber could hear it, “It gets harder and harder to know that I have to leave!”

He stopped and staggered a little, tears choking his voice. At a loss for anything else to do, Gobber reached out and turned Rack around to face him. Then he wrapped his arms around the taller man and pulled him close. He felt the briefest tensing in Rack’s body before he returned the embrace. His head leaned down onto Gobber’s shoulder, and it might have been awkward if it weren’t so utterly necessary. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, because there was nothing else to say.

“It shouldn’t bother me this much!” Rack sobbed into Gobber’s shoulder. His fingers tightened into claws against his skin, and hot, wet tears soaked into his tunic. “I’ve known this would happen since I was a boy, but now that it's so close I can't bear it.”

Gobber patted Rack's back with his stump. They stood like that, in each other’s arms, until the wind buffeted them so hard that it was impossible to stall any longer. In the rest of the snares were three more rabbits and a squirrel, and they had just ducked under the forge awning when the first drops of rain fell like a volley of arrows. The storm announced its arrival with a bolt of lighting and a crack of thunder harsh enough to shake the ground.

Rack took the meat in the house while Gobber watched the rain. When he came back out into the forge, whistling tunelessly and seemingly back to normal, Gobber had fully unwrapped his stump and tossed the bandages into the fresh fire a few feet away. He looked up from the wound as Rack approached. The whistling stopped.

“Thank you,” Rack said quietly enough that it barely carried over the pound of the rain and the crackle of the fire. He snagged a stack of clean cloth bandages and a bowl of salve from where Gobber kept them by the tools.

Gobber’s newly-automatic response left his lips without conscious thought: “Don’t worry about it.” He held out his hand for the bandages, which Rack did not surrender. “For what?”

“You’re the only person I’ve told about—well, about that. It’s good to have it off of my chest.” He gripped the supplies, and peered over at the ugly-but-healing sight that was Gobber's arm. He felt strangely exposed with another person looking at his stump. “Is that still sore?”

Gobber prodded at it a bit. It wasn't such an angry mess anymore; the swelling had gone down, and the edges seemed to have sealed together. Even his scabs were mostly peeling or gone. Looking at it, though, he still couldn't grasp the idea that his arm ended so abruptly where his wrist and hand should have been.

He looked away, out into the rain again. “Not as bad as it was before.”

To Gobber's surprise, Rack dipped his hand in the bowl and scooped out a liberal dose of the salve. He raised his eyebrows and gestured for Gobber to extend his arm. Gobber did, and winced at the feeling of another's touch on his tender skin.

Rack stopped spreading the salve. “Am I–”

“No. It's just weird.”

“Oh.”

It was a remarkably intimate experience to have Rack spread the salve onto his wound. He was careful and thorough, smoothing the paste over the tight row of stitches that held Gobber’s skin together and not saying a word as he did so. Heat rose to Gobber’s cheeks, and he convinced himself that it must have been from the fire.

A thought occurred to Gobber as Rack began to wrap his arm in fresh bandages. “Why haven’t you been involved in anything here?” he asked. “I mean—shouldn’t you be in the council meetings or something, with your other tribe representatives?”

Rack paused to look up at Gobber, both a devious grin and a grimace fighting for purchase on his face. The light from the fire and occasional strokes of lightning danced over his features. “I made a deal with them just before we came ashore. If I could be released from my station and identity while we were on Berk, I would provide my unconditional cooperation and faith in my marriage indefinitely. My—ah—reluctance isn't exactly a secret, so they agreed.”

Gobber blinked. “Some deal.”

“Aye. You could say that.”

Rack tied the bandage and let Gobber take his arm back. He'd done a marvelous job, much better than Gobber could have managed with only one clumsy hand. Gobber leaned against the wall by the fire. “Is Rack even your name, then?”

“What?” Rack wiped his hands on his vest. “Oh. Yes. Well, mostly.”

Gobber threw up his arms in exasperation. “ _Mostly?_ ” 

His friend's peal of laughter filled the forge, and his shoulders shook with the intensity of it. “It's a _nickname_ , Gobber. No need to take up arms.”

“What's it short for, then?” countered Gobber, fixing Rack with a withering glare. It certainly wasn't _that_ amusing.

“I'll tell you,” Rack stalled, “but you have to promise not to laugh. Not even a little.”

Gobber plastered an innocent look on his face. “Not even a little.”

A look of great pain crossed Rack's features, and as he squeezed his eyes shut he muttered: “Miracle.”

Gobber frowned. “Come again?”

“My name is short for ‘Miracle’,” he said through gritted teeth.

He considered that for a moment. And as a smile tickled the corners of his mouth, Rack's expression changed to one of utter betrayal. “I knew it. I _really_ knew it. Here I thought that–”

“It's a nice name, really,” Gobber interrupted. “I've heard worse, for certain, but I'm sure yours at least has a _story_ behind it. A bloke a few years older than me's named Goatfeet. Now _that's_ an awful name.”

Rack's mouth worked for a little while before he could make words come out of it. “Uh–yeah, it is. And thanks–”

“Don't worry about it,” he interrupted again, taking great pleasure in the mix of irritation and amusement the phrase brought his friend. “I just need to hear the story.”

Rack leaned against the wall next to Gobber. “It's simple, really. I should have died as an infant; I was so sick, I'm told, that on the rare occasions I slept, I looked dead. Pale as morning fog, colder than winter itself, and all that sort of blether. It was only by a miracle that I survived. I got the name because my parents are awfully sentimental people. Or, at least, they were back then.”

Storm clouds as thick as the ones above Berk passed over Rack's eyes at having been reminded of his past. Gobber pressed his hand to Rack's forearm to steady him in the present and said: “Let's go have some dinner. I'm sure it's ready by now.”

Rack nodded.

They went inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Find me on tumblr @probably-somewhere


	3. All Good Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gobber and Rack enjoy a little downtime

At this time of year, as the coldest season crept toward Berk, the dragon raids always increased as the beasts stored up food for winter.

This year had been no different.

Several nights a week, the cry of alarm would be heard through rain or sleet or even a clear sky, and the tired but prepared villagers would roll out of their beds and reach for their weapons. For the most part, the attacks hadn't been bad enough to call the entire village to arms; only the warriors by trade would fend them off. The other vikings, though they knew very well how to fight the beasts, had duties to attend to the next morning that didn't mix well with sleep loss.

On the rare occasions that the dragons had mounted a large-scale attack, and everyone was called to fight, Rack proved an invaluable partner. His skill with a sword mesmerized Gobber, and the pair took down a number of dragons together. With their weapons of choice, they were unbeatable.

But on the quiet nights, the two enjoyed a different kind of companionship.

“You’ll not get away this time, you sorry scoundrel!” bellowed Rack, weaving around the tables of the forge with practiced ease. Gobber could only barely keep ahead of him, but he had the advantage of twenty years of familiarity over the other man’s two months. He knew his way around with just enough refinement to put distance between them.

He darted around the end of a table, and found himself facing Rack across the cluttered surface. It seemed a good moment to stop and catch their breath, which was hard to do through their laughter. It would cease for only a few moments, but when the two dared to look at each other, the insane giggles began again. It went on as such for several minutes, until they were mostly quiet.

But, sadly, all good things must come to an end.

His friend snatched up a dull, bent sword that they were supposed to have repaired last week, and pointed it at Gobber. Or, at least, he gave the illusion of it, but with the damaged blade it was hard to tell.

“That’s not fair!” Gobber complained, and reached a poker out of the hot coals in the hearth. He made an experimental jab at Rack, who jumped out of the way.

“And _that_ is?” He eyed the glowing orange end with open unease.

Gobber pursed his lips in consideration and nodded. “Aye, I’d say so.”

And with that, he charged around the table with his weapon held high and a battle cry fit for war.

Rack danced away, leaving the sword to clatter on the table as tears of laughter streamed down his face. Gobber discarded the poker in a bucket of water and increased his speed of pursuit. When he got close enough to Rack, he leapt onto the man’s back.

They fell to the floor in a wrestling heap.

One of Rack’s palms pressed against his face, blocking his vision and making it difficult to breathe. He reached around blindly to find a similar point of weakness on his friend, and used his stump to wrap the offending hand and pull it out of his face. Their legs engaged in their own wrestling match, kicking out every which way before getting tangled among the others. His skin felt hot everywhere it touched Rack’s, but he forced himself to ignore it because he had a fight to win.

Gobber laughed until he saw stars and his chest ached, but neither of them would surrender.

The creak of the old wooden door into the house interrupted their battle. They fell silent and still as Gobber’s mother called, “Gobber? Are you—oh, uh—I didn’t see you there.”

“Dad!” Gobber cried. He detached himself from Rack with some difficulty and sprung to his feet. Rack did the same, and they stood next to each other like two boys caught doing something they shouldn’t.

Which they hadn’t been. They were just messing around, having fun. Nothing to be embarrassed about.

And yet, the heat in his cheeks was almost unbearable, and he couldn’t bring himself to look at his mother. He took a hasty breath, and said: “What is it?”

His mother blinked a few times, as though trying to remember what exactly she’d come in here for. “The Hoffersons want to know when you’ll have their sword repaired. It should be done by now.”

Gobber glanced furtively at the sword Rack had used to threaten him. In truth, they could have easily finished a week ago, but their boy was a constant nuisance in Dragon Training and Gobber had wanted to make him wait.

“It’ll be done tomorrow,” he promised. His mother nodded, looked between the two of them for a few seconds, and retreated back into the main house.

As the door closed behind him, Gobber and Rack looked at each other. All the childish laughter had passed, replaced by an uncomfortable silence. It felt like a wall had risen between them when they’d pulled apart. Gobber wanted to tear it down with his bare hand.

Rack turned away and sat on Gobber’s bedroll in front of the fire, holding out his hands for warmth. Gobber stood there for a few seconds longer, but then a draft of cold wind passed through and nudged him toward his companion. He obliged it all too easily.

He sat down just to Rack’s left, but left a few more inches between his body and Rack’s than he really wanted to. His friend kept silent, not even whistling to ease the tension. Unspoken words hung between them, so thick in the air that Gobber thought he could slice through them with a sword.

The fire crackled slowly, oblivious to the cold wind that tried to snuff it out. It cast a soft glow into the forge, but the places it didn’t reach were dark and menacing, and made Gobber want to huddle closer to the fire. And to Rack, but for the moment he focused on the flames before him instead.

Rack cleared his throat when the silence became too much. “I should be going to bed,” he announced, and moved to stand up. Unthinking, Gobber reached out his hand to pull Rack back down.

“Don’t go.”

His voice was desperate and he knew it. “I won’t be able to sleep for a few more hours, and I… I don’t really want to be alone.”

The man settled back down next to him, closer than before. They both noticed the new lack of distance between them, somehow more significant now than it had been when they were wrestling. The firelight wove in lilting patterns across the dark skin of Rack’s face. “What’s troubling you?”

Gobber heaved out a breath, peeling his fingers away and holding them in his lap. He said wryly: “Where should I start?”

Rack, smartly, didn’t reply.

He looked down at his stump, latching onto the easiest explanation first. “My arm should be better than it is. I’d expected to be fitted for a prosthetic by now, but it’s still in bandages, and it throbs constantly.”

Rack sighed deeply. “The re-injury set you back, you know that. And it _is_ healing, no matter how slowly. So what is really bothering you, Gobber?” He leaned in a little bit, putting their faces nearly level, but Gobber didn’t look up. He was afraid of what he might do if he did.

He tried a different tack. “The final test for Dragon Training is in two days, and I don’t know if what I’ve come up with is sufficient, or if it’s too much, or...”

“Closer, but still not it. I know you better than that, Gobber.” There was an irritation in his voice that caught Gobber off guard. Startled, he looked up, and when his eyes met Rack’s he was forced to see what he’d been denying himself as the pair grew closer together. He swallowed, hard, and pressed his lips together. Rack wrung his hands in exasperation. “Save both of us some time and tell me the truth—”

“You’re leaving!” he cried, the words tearing from his throat like a secret. They were simple enough, but the weight behind them hit both of them like a stone. Gobber had to bite his lip to keep it from wobbling. “The repairs will be done before the week is out, and then you’ll be gone, and I’ll still be here.”

Shock showed clearly on Rack’s face, forehead creased and mouth hanging slightly open. Either he hadn’t been expecting this, or he hadn’t expected for Gobber to say it so plainly. “There it is,” he muttered, and Gobber knew then that the same concern plagued them both.

It was hard for them to look at each other, but their gazes held, and neither of them spoke.

Out in the open, the reality of it seemed even more terrifying. Because once Rack was gone, he was never coming back. Their lives would resume just as they had been before, and these two months would be nothing more than a happy and painful memory.

Rack closed his eyes and took a shallow breath, pressing his lips together until they paled around the edges. Gobber watched him silently, trying to burn every inch of him into his brain. The firelight danced on his skin, lingering in his eyelashes and pooling against his lips. In that moment, nothing in the world was more beautiful than Rack. An unfamiliar yearning collected in Gobber’s gut, and he thought that maybe it would be satisfied if he could just touch him. So he leaned his head over onto Rack’s shoulder, closing his own eyes. Memory wasn’t entirely dependent on sight, after all.

He felt Rack shift as he put his arm around Gobber, pulling them closer together. He traced patterns on the skin of Gobber’s left arm, just above the bandages, and it sent a pleasant chill up his spine. He wanted to drown in that moment for all of eternity.

But, even then, Gobber knew that all good things must come to an end.


	4. Do You Hear That?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gobber and Rack run into some trouble setting up for the final test

This late at night, it _should_ have been too dark to see his hand in front of his face.

But the gods must have been watching that night, because the stars glinted above them in a clear sky, and the moon provided enough light that they hadn’t bothered with a torch. Their arms had been too full of weapons and traps to carry one, in any case. The occasional breeze wandered through the forest, and the stubborn bugs that stuck around for the cold season buzzed and croaked.

In all, it was the perfect night to set up a test.

The dragon training final was this: the top two students, Stoick, the future chief, and his brother Spitelout, would begin at a beach on one side of the island, and have to overcome obstacles, traps, and distractions on their path to the Arena on the other. The student who arrived at the Arena first would claim the honor of killing the feral Nadder that waited for them there.

It had seemed like a better idea in their heads than in reality, when they had to construct it. They had snares to set, mud pits to construct, and a bridge to block off, all before sunrise. They could have started yesterday, but if they had, the surprise would have been ruined, and the competitors might have had a chance to prepare.

So Gobber and Rack snuck out in the dead of night, only Alvilda aware of their absence.

Their breaths puffed out in a ghostly fog that nearly froze midair. The cold might have bothered them if the constant motion of the preparations hadn’t worked a thin sheen of sweat onto their skin. Naturally, it turned into a sort of competition; who could set the best snares, dig the best mudpits. There was nothing to win but the pleasure of each other’s company, and in that, neither of them could lose. 

They hid weapons about, too, for the students to find and use in the Arena, and the small cart they’d brought along to carry everything was all but empty by the time they made it to the bridge. The only supplies they had left were a small hammer, a few nails, and a length of rope. These they would use to barricade the bridge and force the competitors to find a different way across the stream.

Gobber settled the cart next to the stream, and the two of them set to work on their barricade. The rustling of the trees and the other chatters of the forest fell away. Gobber was so focused on his work and Rack’s company that he didn’t pay it much attention, but in the back of his mind an uneasiness set in. Only a pause in their conversation made the quiet deathly apparent.

“Do you hear that?” Gobber asked.

“No. I don’t hear anything.” Rack paused mid step, the rope strung between his hands and the beginning of a whistle caught between his teeth.

Gobber’s stomach sank like a rock. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

Rack went still as a statue as the realization dawned on him as well.

“Odin, help us.”

The prayer had barely left his lips before a wave of heat and light burst from the forest to their left. Gobber turned to look at it full-on as desperation crept up his throat, and he nearly crumbled to his knees at the sight.

A Monstrous Nightmare.

It was big. So, so big. Gobber saw every inch of its body underneath the fire that blazed along its hide. It was green and gold and filled with rage, probably hungry and certain that Gobber and Rack would be its next meal. Looking between it and them, Gobber thought it might just be right.

Pushing down cold dread, Gobber assessed their situation. They were weaponless—the only possibility was the hammer, located in the cart closer to the dragon than it was to them—and alone. He almost considered baring his one fist and fighting it that way, but he knew that would get them killed faster than jumping off a cliff.

So he did the only logical thing.

Gobber fisted the back of Rack’s shirt and pulled him away, shouting “ _Run!_ ” as he broke into a dead sprint. They ran like hell in the opposite direction, tearing along the stream bed as loose rock slid out from under their feet and nearby tree branches whipped their arms and faces.

It wasn’t enough.

The dragon gained on them easily, and with not even a warning gurgle it fired at them from behind.

Rack fell to the ground, and all the fire around them showed his burns with awful clarity. The spray of fire had grazed his right side, from his ear all the way down to his knee. Half of his shirt and part of his trousers were burned away, revealing angry red and blackened skin underneath. Gobber could almost hear the sizzling heat trapped on his body. A choked, agonized scream wrenched out of Rack’s chest and stabbed right through Gobber’s. He couldn’t bear to hear him in pain.

There was no way he could run any farther.

Gobber could never leave Rack here alone.

So this was where it ended, then.

While the Nightmare readied itself for another attack, Gobber dragged Rack, moaning and limp, down to the cold, wet mud at the riverbank on their left. Frost was already collecting in it, but he’d probably prefer that to the patch of scorched ground he had been laying on. Knowing there was nothing else to do, Gobber scrambled back up to the forest edge.

He knelt, keeping his eyes on the dragon as he picked up a fallen branch. He stood and squared himself between the dragon and the man behind him.

Took a single glance back at Rack to steel his nerves.

Then he turned back around to face another reality, this one more dangerous but far easier to deal with.

Fighting dragons, Gobber thought, was easy.

Falling in love with a man betrothed to someone else was another matter entirely.

With a battle cry worthy of the Gods’ own ears, Gobber rushed the dragon. It followed suit, and the distance between them fell away. A gurgling noise gave him enough warning that he could roll out of the way of the molten fire it spat at him. He went to the left, ducking behind a tree to get himself even closer to the dragon before putting himself directly in the line of fire again.

The dragon growled deep in its throat, angry at having lost sight of Gobber. It shot a blast in his general direction, but by then he’d already shuffled farther forward. If he could exhaust its fire reserves, he might have a chance. But he didn’t dare let himself think that yet.

He charged at it again, this time coming close enough to bash at it with his stick, but it broke after just two hits. The Nightmare caught the rest in its jaws, tearing it out of his grip. He danced out of the way of yet another burst of fire.

Trees all around him creaked and groaned as flames licked their trunks, trying to pull them down. But the trees were stubborn trees, and they stood as straight and tall as ever. Gobber tucked and rolled, using his momentum to land a punch on the dragon’s long throat. It roared and coughed out sparks as Gobber brought his arm back for another hit. He would’ve been faster with another hand to do damage, but that wasn’t the case.

As it was, his punch did no damage at all because it never connected with the dragon’s flesh. It whipped its head around, jaws open and lips pulled back to show wicked teeth.

The pain didn’t register at first as those fangs sunk into the end of Gobber’s stump. Realizing its success, the dragon shook its head and Gobber with it. He tore the bandages on his arm, fighting in vain to free himself.

A rock flew out of nowhere and collided with the dragon’s shoulder.

The distraction gave Gobber enough time to rip his arm free and fall back out of the way. He scrambled backward and saw Rack in the moonlight, barely able to stand and covered in burns, with another rock pulled back to throw. He released, but this throw was weaker, and fell a good yard short of the dragon.

Rack’s eyes met Gobber’s, and the smallest flicker of humor showed there. His wry smile betrayed the pain that wracked his body.

“Don’t worry about it,” Rack croaked, and then his legs gave out. He crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

There wasn’t time to rush toward Rack, to catch him, to _save_ him, as the dragon spat out his bandages and focused on its new attacker. Though he was now a motionless heap, the dragon advanced.

Gobber struggled to his feet, scraping hand and bare stump on the rough ground to gain purchase, and launched himself toward them. With the Nightmare’s attention on Rack, Gobber took the opportunity to wrap himself around the dragon’s neck. He tried to choke it out with his left arm and used his hand to scratch at anything he could find. Eyes, nose, anything.

The dragon bucked underneath Gobber and scuttled backward, leaving Rack forgotten on the ground. He pleaded with the gods—please, please, oh, please—that he was only unconscious.

Before Gobber could do any real damage to the dragon, he felt its skin heat up and the scales become tacky with accelerant mucus. He dropped off the dragon’s neck just as it burst into flames. Some of it caught on his tunic, but he extinguished it by rolling away.

Gobber allowed himself a few seconds to lay on the ground. Burns and aches coated every inch of his body. He was torn, and bleeding, and all the logic in his brain told him that he should give up, run for his life, save himself. Part of him even wondered if that’s what Rack would want him to do.

But he hadn’t the strength of mind or body to do anything other than grasp another branch and push to his feet. It was still dark outside, but the dragon glowed like the embers of a fire.

_Think_ , Gobber told himself. _Think._ Brute force wouldn’t get him or Rack through this alive. He searched his brain for anything about Nightmares that might be useful. He knew everything about dragons, nearly had the Dragon Manual memorized, had taught Training for years, and yet–

That was it.

Monstrous Nightmares had an odd mutation. To make the extra space necessary to form their special fire, they had one less pair of ribs than most dragons. At the right angle, a blade could slice through the gas sacks and into the vital organs, killing a dragon in moments. With a sword, it would have been an easy kill. With a stick, maybe not. But he had to try.

Gobber formulated a plan. It was rash, stupid, and farther than a long shot, but when it came down to it, he had no choice.

“Hey, fish face!” he taunted. “You’re not so tough. I could kill you with no hands at all. But, luckily, I’ve got one right here that has your death written all over it.” The words were more for his sake, but the dragon focused in on the new noise with slitted eyes. It shuffled forward, growling deep in its throat, and spat out fire. Gobber sidestepped, and as the dragon investigated whether he’d been burned to a crisp, he broke into a run.

Instead of heading straight for the dragon, he took a semi-circular route, and as he put on a last burst of speed, he dropped to the ground and skidded under its belly. The frosted dirt was unforgiving as it scraped the skin off his legs even through his trousers, and there wasn’t nearly enough room underneath the dragon to move comfortably. The heat difference between the ground and the dragon’s hide was absurd, burning hot and freezing cold at the same time. Mixed with the throbbing pain that coated him like a blanket, Gobber’s senses could barely keep track of it all.

At this point, Gobber calculated, there were fourteen ways his plan could go wrong—a rough, optimistic estimate—and exactly one way for it to go right. But, oddly enough, he wasn’t afraid. Not even a little. If any fear hid within him, it was totally overwhelmed by the desire to protect the man he loved.

His body ground to a stop under the dragon’s belly, and a desperate search for the telltale soft spot yielded success. He pushed his back against the ground for all the power he could muster as he drove the stick into its flesh.

The weapon sunk into the dragon’s body with ugly efficiency, and the Nightmare screamed. It collapsed on top of him, crushing Gobber with its bulk. Its wings flailed and carried the screeching dragon mostly off of him. But his feet were trapped, and he struggled to pull himself free. With each passing moment, the claws on the dragon’s feet and wings slashed through the air, and he knew it was only matter of time before they slashed _him_.

Random bursts of fire lit the night, frequent enough that Gobber was sure it had run itself out by the time he wrenched his left foot free. He kicked out into the dragon’s side, using it as leverage to extricate his second foot.

Its head whipped around with frenzied speed, and the dragon’s massive jaws clamped down on Gobber’s lower leg. He cried out, surprised more than in pain at that point, and curled up to pry at the dragon’s head with his hand. He pushed against it, but that only succeeded in pressing the teeth through his boot and deep into his flesh.

Okay. It hurt now.

He bashed at the dragon, his stump and his hand leaving bloody smears wherever they connected. Whether it belonged to him or the dragon, he wasn’t sure. Probably both.

“Let go of me!” he yelled at it, but of course the dragon wasn’t paying any attention. He’d resigned by now that his plan had failed to do anything more than anger the dragon, and maybe handicap it.

Now all three of his other limbs fought to liberate him, but he was losing energy fast. The cold air seeped it from him; every cut and bruise took its share. He weakened by the second.

And he lost all hope when he the heat rose up in the dragon’s throat.

“No, no, _no!_ ” Angry tears stung his eyes. He gave one last, empty effort to break free before the fire came, but focused mostly on bracing himself for the pain.

When it came, it paralyzed him. The fiery agony that consumed his foot eclipsed his vision, and all control over his body disintegrated. It shuddered and spasmed without reason, and when the dragon let go of whatever was left of him he resumed his anguish alone on the ground.

At some point, he must have rolled down the riverbank, because a harsh coldness overtook him. Maybe the dragon had decided to leave them alone, because it didn’t bother him as he stilled, exhausted and tortured.

A grim smile plucked at Gobber’s lips. “How’s that for a walk along the beach?” he muttered to Rack, lying somewhere along the riverbank. He searched blindly about him and somehow— _somehow_ —Rack was there. Gobber found his hand with his own, and his fingers clenched around the other man’s. His skin was cold and his pulse was weak, but he was there, and that was all that mattered.

Despite his wounds, he only thing he felt when he slipped into unconsciousness was relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter! Thanks so much for reading, as usual, and drop me a comment if you enjoyed it :)


	5. One Other Reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rack leaves Berk.

Alvilda found them just after dawn.

Gobber had floated in and out of delirium in the hour or so before their discovery, and was in one of his more lucid states when Alvilda stumbled over them.

He realized their luck in being attacked by the bridge. Anywhere else, and they may never have been found. As it was, Alvilda ran back to the village for help; she couldn’t carry two grown men on her own.

When they arrived, Gobber was unconscious again.

Later, he was told that they were rushed immediately to the healer, who treated them both for serious wounds and delivered a less-than-optimistic prognosis. Given their situation, it was a miracle they were still alive at all. The dragon, on the other hand, lay dead mere yards away from where Gobber had fallen, with a fatal wound to the chest caused by nothing more than a tree branch.

They both needed a lot of sleep to aid their healing, but neither was entirely comatose after the first day or so. Oddly enough, Gobber was almost grateful for what had happened.

It meant that Rack could not leave until he’d healed.

At first, Gobber thought it might be a good idea to start forgetting how he felt, because it would only end in sorrow, but he found it to be impossible. Spending every moment just feet away from Rack proved too powerful to deny, and he gave up in a matter of days.

After a week, the healer gave Rack permission to walk about the cabin. Gobber was still bedridden, as he would be for some time. Rarely did someone walk so soon after losing their leg.

Rack never wandered far, choosing to spend most of his time at the edge of Gobber’s bed.

“We’re quite the sight, aren’t we?” Rack mused, picking at the edge of one of his bandages. They covered the right side of his body almost entirely, hiding the rawness that passed for his skin with soft whiteness instead. The burns continued partially up the side of his face, ending just below his ear. They gnarled the otherwise smooth brownness of his skin with an angry red. Bandages there never stayed on for long, so the healer told him to apply salve every hour and left it at that.

“Aye,” agreed Gobber. “But I don’t mind.”

Rack’s hand slid into Gobber’s, their fingers weaving together easily. “Neither do I. Except for the burns; I could do without those.”

Gobber brought their entwined hands to his lips, and pressed a soft kiss onto Rack’s knuckles. “And I could do with two more limbs, but we can’t have everything.”

His words teased a quiet chuckle out of Rack, whose head tilted back to touch the wall behind him. They stayed like that, Gobber listening in contentment as Rack whistled a slow, sad dirge. He traced little patterns on Rack’s knuckles, delighting in how the touch made him shiver and the smooth sound of his whistle tremble.

It was moments like these that hurt the most for Gobber. The moments that taunted him with everything he knew would never be.

Because as soon as the healer gave his word, Rack’s tribe would send off. Two of the ships would return to their island, in the case that the advance party had returned home, and the other two would go ahead to Shatter island, where Rack’s future waited. They avoided the subject whenever possible, but it had a bad habit of surfacing every now and then.

Rack cleared his throat, fixing his eyes on their hands. The silence hung around them like a curtain without his whistling to fill it. “Gobber, promise me something.”

“Anything.” He said it with no hesitation whatsoever. Rack blinked at him and chewed his lip.

“Don’t—don’t marry someone, if you don’t love them.”

“I—” Gobber didn’t know what to say. Rack squeezed his hand tighter.

“Because I can’t,” Rack said. His voice was bare. “I don’t get to choose, so you have to. Please, Gobber. You have to be able to choose.”

He swallowed hard, finally finding his words. “But what if I already chose you?”

Rack’s eyes closed, and then his face crumpled into itself with the effort of holding back his tears. His lips turned into a thin white line and he made an angry swipe at the wetness on his cheeks.

“Don’t say that.”

Gobber sat up in his bed and laid his stump atop their clasped hands. “It’s the truth,” he said with more certainty than he’d ever felt in his life. “And I swear, Rack, that I will never marry anyone who is not you.”

Rack looked away and took a shuddering breath. “Please, Gobber. You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do,” Gobber said. He pulled Rack’s face back around to look at him. “Because no one will ever be you. No one will ever have your eyes, and I don’t want any eyes but yours to ever look at me the way yours do. There will never be another with your mouth, to talk to me like you do and to make me want to kiss you so badly every time–”

Rack kissed him then. It caught Gobber off guard, and he tasted the salt in the tear that traced steady lines down both their cheeks. It was a stolen kiss, chaste as young love but passionate as true romance. It lasted only moments, but once they pulled apart, his chin was in Rack’s unburned hand and his arm was wrapped tenderly around Rack’s shoulder and they were staring into each other’s eyes. _Gods,_ but he wished that kiss could last forever.

They hung there in the air, faces just inches apart. Rack sniffed and smiled sadly. “I love you,” he said. “Thank you.”

Gobber pressed their lips together again and said into his mouth: “Don’t worry about it.”

***

He left three days later.

Gobber had forgotten what it was like not to have someone by his side constantly, and nowoften found himself making a remark to no one. It all seemed too quiet without the sound of Rack’s easy whistling to fill the silence.

Everything just seemed empty without the refugees on Berk.

The tables of Meade Hall were all but barren in the evenings, and only subdued conversation floated through the cavernous space. Villagers found themselves with idle time that would have been otherwise spent on boat work. His mother’s grumbles about forge work lacked any particular conviction.

Even his father’s search to find a wife for Gobber slowed to a stop, as if he knew the pain Gobber felt over the loss of Rack. He wasn’t dead, no, but he might as well be. The Rack that Gobber knew—that Gobber _loved_ —was gone forever. And he’d taken a piece of Gobber with him. His father would occasionally point out someone—man or woman—raise his eyebrows and say, “That one’s nice.” But upon Gobber’s shake of the head would always drop the subject. Eventually, he accepted that Gobber had no interest in any of them, and gave up.

As months passed, his wounds healed as entirely as they ever truly would. He was fitted with prosthetics for his arm and leg, and he did his best to move on. Some days he would still find himself searching for the speck of ships on the horizon, as though his love would reappear to fill the void in his chest. It hurt. Really, it did, and he knew that pain would always be with him. So he closed off that part of himself and learned to function with pieces of himself missing.

Then months became years, and that pain dulled to the occasional lonely night by the forge fire, with the faint reminiscence of hot-poker tag and wrestling matches, of late nights in the Arena and long hours of boat work. He grew older, and his joints stiffer, and he wondered at the fact that he had ever been able to run about like that, or love as deeply as he had.

He found other things to occupy his time, of course. At some point he realized that despite his heart being somewhere else in the world, he had found happiness in his life. He became the new chief’s closest advisor, looked after his only son once his mother was taken away, and taught Dragon Training every summer without fail for thirty years until the island of Berk changed for good. After that, he adapted to the new way of life easily, and went months at a time without thinking of Rack.

But in an icy cavern, as Stoick was reunited with Valka, his love, Gobber couldn’t help but be reminded of his own separation, and leaned in toward Hiccup’s ear.

“This is why I never married,” he muttered, even managing a knowing smile. The familiar pang in his chest was back and he wished more than anything that it could be him up there reuniting with the man he would love until the day he died. “That, and _one other reason._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to whoever reads this thing. I know Gobber is a side character who not many people care to read fanfic about, but this story felt really important for me to write. I know that the line that inspired this was a throwaway line that Craig Ferguson came up with on the fly, but it was used to imply that Gobber is gay without ever saying as much in the movie, and I wanted there to be a better reason for him never marrying a man than that Berk didn't allow same sex marriage. So I gave him that reason in the form of a person, because that's so much better than homophobia, don't you think?
> 
> Anywho, I would really appreciate if you could share this story with other people. Like I said, not many people are likely to be perusing ao3 and think "Wow, I could really use a Gobber/OC fic right now." So, thank you for reading this again, and thanks in advance for sharing it with other people in the fandom. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are the fuel that keep me going in this world.  
> Find me on tumblr @probably-somewhere


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